Love, Thy Name is Madness
by batquest7
Summary: With an important international conference in progress, Russia and Belarus must confront their feelings for each other.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Hetalia does not belong to me.**

For this, my first published work, I give special thanks to the authors EvanescingSky, gunman, Pretani, Lord of the land of fire, Mister Cynical, and phillyphil2010 for inspiring me by their evident dedication to their writing. Plot ideas and reviews appreciated. Will there be more chapters to follow? You tell me.

**Love, Thy Name is Madness**

By batquest7

Ivan Braginski was not a happy man. To be fair, there weren't many who would have been happy in his situation, inching his way across the narrow window ledge that led from his bedroom to the hall. Ivan fumed at the theatric, but had to concede its necessity. The only alternative was to make a dash from the door to the stairs, but that route would have guaranteed a collision with _her_.

The coming of April generally portended less snow and more rain; today seemed to be proving the rule. There was too little frost on the ground to cushion a potential fall, and enough rain was already falling at this early hour to blur his vision. The haven that was the hall window seemed to be hidden behind a watery curtain that descended with increasing rapidity and force from the black sky above.

But fear was a supreme motivator, and Ivan considered the weather for only an instant as he made his way across the tightrope. The rain could pour to its heart's content, for all he cared. If anything, Ivan thought, a fall from two stories up would be a sweet and merciful release from the terror that he sought to escape. Even now, as he wobbled over to seize the near side of the window frame with his fingertips, Ivan heard the screams beginning, the screams of an unstoppable force venting the rage of her frustration.

Muttering oaths from a combination of fear and indignation, Ivan reached out to raise the window sash that led to safety. His body hung partially out in the air as he raised the barrier as highly as possible. Without stopping to think, Ivan swung out from the ledge, over the sill, and into the hall. He landed with an ungraceful thud on the cold tile floor.

Ivan Braginski, the man who was Russia incarnate, didn't dare to believe his luck. He was alive and had again evaded the one person who struck fear into even _his_ heart. But all was not well yet. He heard a crashing sound coming through the open window from the room he had just left. The beautiful mahogany that formed his bedroom door was giving way to the blows of a fearsome invader.

_She must really be in the throes of it today_ mused Russia as he lifted himself to a sitting position on the floor. His temples throbbed and his chest heaved as he sat, his mind still collecting itself. Ivan gently closed his eyes; it hurt too much to use them at present. He reached inside the coat he was wearing to pull out his pipe and some matches. His fingers brushed against something metallic: the flask of vodka he had started to carry with him. Instinctively, the fingers extended to take the flask, but stopped. _One, two, three, four, five_. For the space of five seconds he was rigid, unsure of what to do. Then the moment passed and his hand moved into the correct pocket.

Still sitting on the floor as he lit up his pipe and opened his eyes, Ivan heard quick footsteps in the opposite hall approaching the crashing sounds. The servants were obeying previous instructions. They were to attempt to coax the would-be entrant away with a gourmet breakfast. He hoped it would work.

He knew it wouldn't.

The crashing sounds ceased suddenly. That meant the menu was being presented. A voice spoke, in tones at once girlish and deadly. Russia looked to the ceiling, mouthing words one step ahead of the voice. "I don't want breakfast!" "But madam-" The following medley of cries brought Russia sharply to his feet and quickly marching to the scene. Fear or no fear, this was too much. Putin had made it clear that the government could not afford another legal fiasco on her account. _Frankly,_ Russia thought, _they should have thought of that before they hired these people and trained them in these ridiculous procedures!_

How many times had he tried to explain that it was safer to leave her be, no matter how terrifying it was for him personally?

He took the situation in at a glance as he came into the other hall, his face and bearing showing nothing of their former distress, if only for the sake of the potential victims. Four servants, three men and a woman, were huddled against a pillar, collectively paralyzed with fear by the sight before them. Across from them, the door to Ivan's bedroom lay halfway off its hinges. Slashes and dents in the wood showed where fists and a knife had been applied, in some places alternately, in some places simultaneously. There were also signs that a large and heavy object, probably the bust of Peter the Great that now lay shattered and strewn over the carpet, had been called into service against the door. Russia absorbed all these things with a cursory sweep of his eyes before focusing on the eye of the hurricane.

A petite and beautiful figure with long blonde hair stood with her back to him. In one hand she held a small, sharp knife, its tip up against the soft fold of flesh that covered a carotid artery in a throat. In the other hand she held the possessor of that throat a few inches above the ground, a well-dressed gentleman's gentleman whose eyes had glassed over from fear and was exerting what little self-discipline he had at the moment in an attempt to retain control of his bodily functions. He would discover later that he had failed in this effort.

Russia swallowed hard and forced a commanding note into his voice as he spoke. "Natalia. Release him."

Her shoulders tensed momentarily, then relaxed. She loosened her grip on the man's throat and took the knife away. He sank to the ground and coughed hoarsely, still holding the menu in his hand. For a moment, there was silence. Finally, Russia barked a command. "Out! All of you!" The servants needed no second word, literally trying to climb over each other in their haste to depart.

The two were suddenly alone.

Without warning, the girl turned around with a smile that was equal parts sweetness, joy, and madness. "Good morning, big brother!"

Russia massaged his still-throbbing temples. _What am I to do with you, Belarus?_


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: Hetalia does not belong to me.**

Plot ideas and reviews appreciated.

*****Translation of Pushkin's The Flowers of Autumn Days by Yevgeny Bonver.

.com/post/12816054664/the-flowers-of-autumn-days-are-sweeter-than-the

He regarded her intently as the moments passed. With his temples no longer hurting, Russia brought his left arm down into the opposite crook and cupped his chin with his free right hand. The gesture went well with his furrowed brow, the grave clinician considering the difficult patient.

Belarus, for her part, acted as though all was perfectly normal. She had replaced her knife beneath her dress; Ivan's experienced eye could just see the slight protrusion on her right side. Although she would not now look at him, he could tell that she was still smiling as she stared at the ground. As he watched her, Belarus started to bob up and down on the balls of her feet, a motion that seemed strangely cute. _Trying to look coy_, her brother reasoned. The silence that now reigned seemed infinite, though the servants had fled only minutes before.

Silence was her advantage; he had to end it. Ivan readied himself for speech, bringing his hands together behind him and glancing at the siege of his room. "Natalia," he began objectively, "that door was expensive, and hardly a worthwhile diversion from a well-prepared breakf-" He brought his eyes back to her and stopped short. In the span of a heartbeat Belarus had advanced, now being only centimeters away from him. Her eyes were still downcast and she no longer bobbed. Ivan paled, his voice losing some of its firmness. "In-in any case, this was quite unnecessary. I should appreciate a little more-a little more courtesy in the future; I'll be -"

"You shouldn't lock your door like that."

The surprise of hearing his sister speak derailed Russia's train of thought and distracted him from her change of expression. She was no longer smiling; she had gradually set her mouth in a razor line as he spoke. That should have been enough of a warning. Yet it was her unexpected tone that brought his mind into focus. Natalia's words carried the timbre of the executioner's axe, each syllable seemingly wrought in a forge of solid ice.

"Why? Why would you lock your door at all? There's no one here except us! You were trying to keep me away, weren't you? WEREN'T YOU?" The ice had melted to reveal a roaring river of rage carrying enough power for a tirade to rock the heavens. Ivan knew he could only let it run its course. He just hoped that course ended with him _still alive_. Behind his back, he clenched his hands into fists to control the nascent tremors running through his body. As she gained momentum, he suddenly rediscovered his ability to speak.

"There's someone else, isn't there?" "No, there isn't." "Liar! I _know_ there's someone!" "There is no-" "Who is it? I have to know! You have to tell me!" "I can't speak to what-" "Tell me!" "I can't speak-" "Tell me!" He bit his lower lip and jerked his head up toward the ceiling; she wouldn't be able to see the frightened mist forming in his eyes "I can't sp-"

"TELL ME!"

There was a moment's pause, and then he looked down at her again. She was still looking downward, but now quietly panting. He waited until she stopped. When it finally came out his voice was soft, intending to give assurance.

"I can't speak to what I don't know." He lowered himself to one knee and put his hands on her shoulders. She sank down closer to him. "Sweetheart, what is this really about? What do you really want?" he asked with a gentle smile. Now, for the first time that morning, Belarus met his eyes. They were two pairs of limpid pools, gazing into each other. The razor line of her mouth was gone, leaving something more desperate and vulnerable in its wake.

She parted her lips and brought her eyelids down slightly. They sent him a clear message as she traced a pattern on his chest:

_You know what I want_.

He exhaled slightly, never straying from her face. Taking that as a signal, she took his head in her hands and leaned in closely. Ivan tried to stand up but her grip was strong; she held him in place. Besides, he was getting lost in those beautiful eyes of hers. She came closer. They really were beautiful…those eyes…

Reality set in with a cough. A small "ahem" surprised Belarus just enough to loosen her grip on her brother's head. Russia looked back over his shoulder. One of the butlers was standing a few meters behind him.

"Begging your pardon, sir and madam, but a car is waiting outside to take madam to the airport."

Russia looked back to see his sister's reaction. Her face was an impenetrable mask, as though the recent interlude had not occurred at all. Looking over Ivan's shoulder, she told the butler that she would be right there and asked him to send someone out with her luggage.

Ivan, eager to preserve at least an _appearance_ of normalcy, reverted immediately back into form. "Right then!" he said, standing up briskly and extending a hand to help his sister do the same. His tone was instantly businesslike. "I'm about to be late for a conference call, so I'll see you later. You really should eat. Have them pack you something. I found the chef's blini especially good today."

"Ivan-", she said in a small voice.

"I should have had the jet fueled earlier. President Lukashenko wants your opinion on the new education reform bill. He even called me yesterday, wondering if you had agreed to come back-"

"Ivan, I-"

"-state business of the highest order. Education is vital to a strong society! You must not-" He stopped. The mask had come off; she was ready to cry.

He wanted to kick himself. Who had stopped listening _now_? He glanced back over his shoulder. The butler took the hint and headed for the stairs.

"Hey, hey." The soft voice had returned. "I'm sorry. It won't be for long. You'll be back here in a week." _Did I just express regret that I have a reprieve from her_? She threw her arms around him and buried her face in his chest. He smiled again, hugged her tightly for a moment, and then tried to extricate himself. She was unwilling to let him go, but eventually she brought her arms away.

He brushed a stray hair out of her face, wiped away a single tear, and gave her a final smile.

Then he was gone, headed for his study in the office wing.

She stood there a moment, inhaling the air and trying to become one with the space he had just occupied. She heard her luggage being brought down.

She knew she needed to go. She had said she would. But try as she might to do otherwise, she kept thinking about her brother.

_I want to marry him_.

Her mouth set in the old razor line.

_I _will_ marry him_. _I _will _marry him_. _I _will _m-_"

Her stomach rumbled, a reminder of the forsaken breakfast.

_I _will _marry him…after I sample those blini._

* * *

><p>If anyone asked Ivan Braginski what he treasured most in life, he had four immediate answers: his country, his family, sunflowers, and good vodka. He treasured all four so much that he wanted them constantly near at hand.<p>

As such, he was not at all happy to discover that someone had moved the vase of sunflowers that decorated his study. It had taken him a moment to discover their absence, being as engrossed as he was in thoughts of his sister.

He really would miss her while she was away, despite how terrifying she could be. Belarus had been the only one to return to the fold after the Soviet Union had broken up. Everyone else had been more than happy to get out from under Russia's thumb. Even Katyusha, Ivan's own elder sister, had departed; she, at least, called every week, usually apologizing profusely for defaulting on payment for the natural gas that she bought from him. Ivan doubted the people of the Ukraine had any idea of the family dynamics to which they owed their home heat.

Right now, though, all extraneous personal concerns were out of his mind. Someone was obviously in need of Russia's personal style of employee discipline. If memory served, he had a fair idea of whose thought process required _correction_. He stalked the halls of his office wing and quietly muttered the chant in preparation, "kolkolkolkol…."

The first echo of their leader's battle cry was a red alert to the more experienced members of Ivan's staff, sending them all scurrying into the nearest rooms. While most knew well that their boss had a hair-trigger temper, some of the recent new hires were still blissfully ignorant of the danger.

One of these happy idiots was named Vasily Mordevski, an obtuse and obese cretin who owed his job entirely to his family history: his late mother had been the first female head of the cryptology section years previously. Mordevski's current duties included watering the sunflowers when the boss was out. He'd recently noticed that the regular vase needed a good cleaning. That was an innocuous task, provided that one remembered to leave the flowers behind in the other vase. Instead Mordevski, in an effort to either save time or flirt with some unacknowledged suicidal impulse, had removed the vase from the study, flowers and all, thus rendering said study devoid of said flowers.

Upon seeing Mordevski coming down the hall with sunflowers in tow, many in the office decided that it was a good time for an extended coffee break. Almost all the cubicles were therefore empty when Ivan arrived on the hunt. It didn't take him long. Mordevski called out in greeting.

"Good morning, sir!"

Russia gave a wide smile and spoke cheerfully. "Good morning. You're Mordevski, da? One of our new recruits?"

"Yes, sir! Been on the job two weeks now."

"That's right. You're on study detail at the moment, correct?"

"Yes, sir! Just polishing up one of the vases right now, as a matter of fact."

"Ah," he said in an approving tone. "I commend your diligence. Most excellent."

As Mordevski turned away, Russia, without so much as a whisper, strode up and seized his necktie, drawing it tighter around the man's neck. Mordevski instinctively clawed upward wildly to get the knot away from his throat, but his pudgy fingers got lost in the fleshy folds under his chin. He crashed into his worktable, overturning his chair with a bang.

Ivan felt nothing at the sight, adding the force of his own iron grip. The little pig had committed an unpardonable sin in throwing his inner sanctum out of balance. As Mordevski turned blue, Ivan thought only that the man's cold lack of oxygen would soon be matched by the heat from that circle of Hell reserved for those who defiled a sacrosanct.

One of the few souls brave enough to stay at work during the onslaught was a girl named Vera Kilokov. Right now, she was getting an earful of Mordevski gasping for breath and mercy with increasing faintness. She didn't particularly like him, and she certainly didn't like the prospect of interrupting her boss, but she _had_ gone with Mordevski on one date the previous winter. While she hadn't enjoyed being sandwiched between a pillow and a pink, hairy whale, the experience did stir some residual feeling of sympathy for her poor bastard of a coworker. So when she realized that the boss had two calls waiting, she went ahead and buzzed the phone at Mordevski's workstation. Unsurprisingly, the boss himself picked it up.

"Mr. Mordevski is indisposed, Miss Kilokov," he said evenly.

"Actually sir, it's for you. President Medvedev and the Prime Minister on lines three and five for your nine o'clock call."

"I see. All right, patch it through to my study and tell them I'll join them momentarily."

As she put down the receiver, Vera thought she heard something heavy being dropped to the ground.

Ivan smoothed back a lock of hair and looked down at the quivering mass before him. Mordevski seemed to be trying to cough, but to no avail. _Trachea, most likely_, Russia thought. _Pathetic_. He gathered his flowers in a bouquet and took a long sniff. An ecstatic smile wafted across his lips. _Sweeter than the firsts of plains indeed, even if _is _spring*_. He began to walk out. Without turning around, he called back,

"I'll expect the vase by the end of the day. Thanks very much for your hard work, Mr. Mordevski!"

* * *

><p>She had to admit, they were good.<p>

Natalia finished the last two blini in quick succession. More had been packed for the flight, but she'd decided to eat a few at home first, just in case they weren't worth taking along. She'd eaten in the kitchen, which she considered a much pleasanter alternative to the austerity of the vacant main dining room. She knew all the kitchen staff by name, and had half-listened over her blini to Lev the dishwasher's tale about chickens recently kept in a bathtub. She liked the kitchen crew because they were _their_ people, as in people Ivan had found himself from the villages instead of worthless government toadies like the ones from earlier. _These _people knew better than to try to press charges against her for assault and battery!

She worried a little about the weight the blini might give her, but Ivan _had_ mentioned she seemed too thin lately. "Members of our house," he had declared, "must always be as fit in body as they are sound in mind."

The staff that had heard that had wisely kept their mouths shut. The irony was lost on her, but she could still see him speaking, making a fist for emphasis and displaying his…his _beautiful_ deltoids and forearms.

She shook her head vigorously as she walked out of the kitchen. It would have to wait. It would _all_ have to wait.

_Why'd I agree to do this? Not for the people, certainly. They haven't been _my _people since I realized I loved-_"

She stopped herself from completing the thought.

_Well, they haven't been my people in years_. _Not since they said they wanted leaders of their own choosing, for all the good that's done them. Anyway, it's what I wanted too, so I could be with-"_

She walked slowly to the front door; the car and the jet would wait for as long as was necessary. She had no hesitation about traveling, but the idea of leaving him alone, even for a little while, was a lead weight in her stomach.

She shook her head again. If she reneged now, he'd be furious. That much was certain. No, she would go. But as soon as she got back, she resolved, she was going to tell him her feelings.

And he _would_ return them, whether he wanted to or not.

She came outside and descended the front steps. The chauffeur held the door open as she started to climb inside. She had one foot in the car before she realized she'd forgotten something important.

She climbed out and looked back at the house. At one of the front windows, she could see someone busily dusting. It was the butler from earlier.

The one who'd interrupted them.

From his standing position at the car door, the chauffeur could not quite perceive the expression on his mistress's face. He felt therefore that he was safely removed from her field of vision as a sudden, frigid, and inexplicable shiver raced along his spine. Was it the wind? The doctor _had _said that the morning breezes would be tough on his arthritis. He leaned over slightly. The mistress's face was set in neutrality, perfectly calm. Beckoning him to wait, she mounted the steps.

Her hand crept toward the underside of her dress.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: Hetalia does not belong to me.**

**I thank my readers for their feedback and patience.**

"…and you're saying she did this _inside the house_?"

Ivan was leaning back in his chair, his feet up upon his desk and his left hand cupping his chin thoughtfully. He'd hoped to sound incredulous with that last inflection, but the muffler of precedent allowed for only fatigued resignation. Across the desk Anatoly Vishdansikov, Chief of Staff and Lord High Executioner of his boss's every last whim, stood at attention while mentally preparing for the reaction to his forthcoming response.

He had just given a full report on the situation that had been reported a half-hour before and for which containment procedures were now underway; namely, that one of the household butlers had been found dead. His throat had been sliced open and his tongue wedged in the cavity. A message had been scrawled in blood on the wall at the scene. Written in Russian, it read:

_Silence is the mandate of service_.

When Ivan heard that part of it, everything had been grotesquely simplified. There was no longer a question of identity to answer. The villagers now had only to pick up what the hurricane had scattered.

Regrettably, it would not be their first experience.

Yet, it had been long enough since the last such calamity that Russia had felt compelled to cut short his phone conference with the President and Prime Minister and hear a full account.

Though his boss had indicated nothing to the effect, Vishdansikov doubted that he had welcomed the necessity of interruption. Consequently, it was with all possible brevity that he answered the question just put to him.

"Yes, sir. As it appears that the intent was to make a point, and considering the absence at the time of any potential eyewitnesses, the interior probably seemed most suitable for the purpose."

"Da…da"

Only his years of training in the FSB kept Vishdansikov from showing the surprise that he now felt. In the span of minutes, he'd envisioned a dozen scenarios of the denouement to this tale, most of which comprised wanton rages, office demolition, and his own personal castration.

But a simple and detached affirmative, given even without the standard piercing glare as his boss moved absently to his office window, was in itself a more shocking action than Vishdansikov had thought possible.

The rain that had made passage-by-window unduly perilous a few hours earlier had resumed after a brief intermission. Water fell hard upon the window as Ivan looked through the panes. The droplets beat a steady rhythm against the glass; a dirgeful marching time for the cortège that bore his old illusions of security and certainty to their final and abysmal resting place. Ivan wondered if Heaven had saved all its tears for these hours that intoned last rites so solemnly at their gravesite.

And who was the deity whose scythe had reaped what he had sown and tendered? Whose beguiling form, one too perfect to have been wrought in any virtuous forge, now danced under lights of unearthly hue in every blink of his eye, beckoning him with forbidden fruit? Who was this temptress, this siren, this Lillith?

If he looked hard enough at his reflection, he could almost see her face somewhere in Minsk.

This had been years in the making, he realized. Precisely when it had begun was of no particular relevance, but he suspected that its origin predated the fall of the Union. Those long, peaceful days spent outside spent breathing in flowers and paradise and…

His mind froze, a muscle spasm in the legs sprinting towards these wondrous new frontiers of conclusion and possibility.

_Belonging_.

That was it; there lay the fundamental truth.

_We give each other a sense of belonging, of point and counterpoint, of unity. We're both afraid of being alone; all these years I simply didn't see…_

Through this musing, he remained silent. Vishdansikov stood at attention at his place, giving credit to all of his instructors in the military and the intelligence service. A ticking clock could be heard somewhere.

Finally, Ivan drowned out the sound of silence.

"You seem to have everything in hand. Proceed at your discretion, Anatoly. When is the Japanese ambassador due to arrive?"

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. The ambassador was scheduled to arrive tomorrow, but it seems that Mr. Honda prefers to handle this particular conference himself. He wonders if it would be possible to begin the proceedings this afternoon.

Ivan chuckled humorlessly. "I take it he's already en route?"

Vishdansikov tapped his ear lobe, activating a communications linkup with their radio monitoring center. Following previous instructions, the other side opened the floodgates to a steady flow of information. He listened for a minute, and then tapped again.

"ETA thirty-eight minutes, sir."

"The man always did like to make a forceful point."

Ivan recalled Witte's correspondence from Portsmouth. Baron Komura's adamancy on certain points had seemed a verbatim reiteration of some of Honda's statements at the Meeting of Nations that year.

"All right, I'll see our brother from Tokyo when he arrives. Please make sure that his quarters are fully prepared."

"At once, sir."

Anatoly saluted briskly and spun around to depart. As he neared the door, Ivan called to him; he turned around.

"As a rule, you've been admirably discrete in your position here. I trust that you will not let this disturbance prove an exception."

"Never, sir." _If only for sure knowledge of the consequences. _

Ivan nodded; in a moment, all of Russia stood once more alone in his office.

He removed his flask from his coat and grappled with it; the cap tended to stick when infrequently used. The fierce struggle ended in a moment; Ivan wasted no time in seizing the fruits-or in this case the fire-of victory. The drink was pleasing to taste, but liquid blazes could not burn away the undergrowth of new and primal feeling that he'd just discovered in his brain.

He set himself a strict limit of one and could already feel the familiar weight of the flask inside his coat as he put it away. Ivan knew he should have at least _attempted _the countdown technique, but it was a moot point. His new emotional state defied all coding.

_I love Natalia…I'm in love with my own sister._

He knew that his world would never be the same now. He could feel the change occurring as strange and fantastic energies seemed to permeate his body, seeking exit through his fingertips. He made his hands into crunching fists so that none would escape.

_God help me, what do I do now?_

* * *

><p>Japan arrived later that day. Their meeting was little more than an indulgence to their respective governments. There was hope on both sides that each would persuade the other to recognize claims of sovereignty to the Kuril Islands.<p>

Ivan had struggled not to roll his eyes when Putin had first approached him. There was no way the Japanese would agree to the terms that Putin's government was offering. Likewise, Honda had argued vainly with Prime Minister Noda that the Diet's approved plan would prove the fodder of countless jokes throughout Moscow. Jokes…and perhaps anger.

But these two powers were sworn to do whatever they could on behalf of their homelands, so they'd agreed to make the effort.

But as they talked on and on well into the night dealing and double dealing, thrusting and parrying, getting drunk and swapping old stories, the dancer twirled ever larger amid Ivan's deepening delirium.

* * *

><p>Minsk had exhausted her. There had been hours of long-winded explication by members of the National Assembly, detailing the exact parameters of the new bill. Afterwards, there had been the obligatory tour of all the <em>raions<em>. She'd received a blessing at one of the cathedrals. Come nightfall, there was the Bolshoi Opera.

_A great deal of pomp and circumstance_, Natalia thought, _for a lie._

From the moment the Assembly members had begun to speak, she'd known the whole thing for a fraud. Someone in the President's cabinet, she decided, must have felt that the appearance of government support for reform would ease international pressure on his administration.

Ivan had known it too, she realized. He must have been desperate for any excuse to get her out of the house; he was looking for a new way to hide from what she knew he felt in his heart.

_We belong to each other_. _Who else could understand us?_

After the opera, she'd returned to the presidential residence; sleep would be a welcome reprieve from the farce that was set to resume early the next morning. Yet, to her annoyance if not her surprise, the desideratum of slumber was hard to find that night. As she lay awake trying to think of something other than the prospect of more political puppetry, Belarus called to mind the sensation of being once more in her brother's arms, of breathing his scent, of touching his face.

In such sweet repose, a tendril of her subconscious guided her hand down to her cradle of divine power, a gift bequeathed from Eve; she touched godhood and made real the eddies and waves of ardent passion that memory brought. They seemed locked together in a frantic climb up a mountain towards an ecstatic summit. When the top was finally crested, she could feel the sweat on her brow and a burning wind in her hair. The vista from on high was of a new and celestial realm, an untouched and unconquered realm of happiness for her, one that she meant to share with him. Yet there was nothing that she could touch, nothing to prove it real.

After a time, consciousness demanded that the power be returned, and Earth once more appeared in focus; all seemed to have been illusory.

But when she looked down, she saw that the guiding hand was now adorned with the white traces of the amorous snows.

She rose, went to the window, and looked out. In her reflection, she saw him clearly.

_Ivan_…_are you thinking of me?_

* * *

><p>In his chambers, Ivan Braginski looked once more out his window. In his mind, thoughts took shape of their own accord.<p>

_I think of you, Natalia_.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: Hetalia does not belong to me.**

**My thanks to my readers for their support, encouragement, and patience.**

The end came as suddenly as the beginning.

Natalia came home at the end of the week with a lustful fire burning brightly in her heart. She paid little heed to the notion that she would have to answer questions about the butler's death.

She knew that anyone who hadn't already been bribed or threatened into silence could always disappear, either by a phone call to certain offices in Moscow or by…other means.

From the moment the limousine pulled up once more before the house in Russia, her train of thought began to run along a single track. The fierceness of her solve did not betray itself in her step, which remained as composed as it had ever been. She ascended the front steps quickly but not hurriedly, passing several people-seemingly members of a diplomatic party-who were heading out with their luggage in tow.

_So Honda came to visit, did he?_ _Good to know I didn't miss much after all_.

She imagined her brother, who would be thankful to have his home as his own again and would be helping himself to vodka even as she moved closer to the door of his suite.

_I _told _him that he was fooling himself trying to stay away_.

Her body tingled expectantly. She'd already planned out her great declaration; she hoped that her brother would respond to her. If not, she could still use the drugs that she had hidden away to relieve him of the burden of higher consciousness while she implanted the appropriate suggestion in his mind.

That had, in fact, been the original plan and dated back many years. Yet, she didn't want to be the lover to a marionette. She'd quickly realized that her passion would be sated only if she could preserve the glorious willpower, the staggering force of personality, that made him who he was. Everything that she loved in him was tied up in his singular approach to life and its challenges.

Anything less would deny his true existence.

Consequently, she was focused on wringing an answer from him of his own volition. More drastic measures were kept in reserve.

She paused before the door to the suite, which was a twin to the door that she had earlier battered down. She took a breath and licked her lips, bracing them for the warm touch of his own that she prayed would be forthcoming.

She opened the door and stepped on the threshold. Ivan stood silently with his back to her, gazing out the window as he had done often of late.

Without turning, he spoke.

"Welcome home. President Lukashenko called a little while ago to deliver his thanks for your help."

She had been prepared for this. Dialogue made for comfortable foreplay.

"Oh, please tell him he's welcome. I'm happy any time to contribute to a puppet show, even when I'm supposed to be in the audience."

He did not reply, but stated simply, "You left me with a mess to clean up. An expensive mess, I might add, and not just in money."

"It is _quite _evident that you don't need any help from me in making messes. I hear you gave one of the staff your famous…personal touch. How much is his lawyer asking for?"

"It doesn't matter. He won't get anything and he knows it. This is simply to save face. If it really stood a chance of becoming anything else, I would've already sent an arrangement to his mother."

"I saw the Eastern exodus on my way in. What did Honda want _this_ time, more wrangling over those damned islands?"

Now Ivan did turn around and regard her. His face was a mask, betraying nothing of the complicated emotions writhing within him.

He considered the possibilities of his next action. In his mind's eye, he saw himself striding up to her, crushing her to him, never letting go until he had explored every part of her and told her of his great awakening.

He could not bring to move any muscle save the ones in his voice, and those only with an effort.

"Belarus…let's stop this. None of that matters now. I have something to tell you."

"I have something to tell you too, and this time there's no ducking it, Ivan. You've run out of exits."

She had planted her feet squarely beneath her, calling to mind the exact location of every harmful instrument she had on her person. Part of her wanted to hurt him, to make him bleed as penance for the contempt that she suddenly thought he had shown to her feelings.

If Russia had picked up a challenge in her words, he gave no outstanding sign. The fearful tremors that previously afflicted him concerning her had been buried corpse-like by that spectral cortège. His mouth did, however, set into a razor-edged line.

"If it's an apology you want, I suggest you call Katyusha. She has plenty to spare."

"No, I don't want an apology. I'd be content with a little honesty."

"Honesty? About what, pray tell?'

"Didn't you have something to tell me?"

Now, for the first time, he shifted uneasily. She had brought him around in a circle. However, he would not retreat now.

He was still Russia incarnate, damn it all!

"Natalia, I know how you feel about me, and I know what you would have me say. While you were gone, I realized that I do indeed feel the same way, but what you hope for can never be."

"Why not?"

She advanced quickly towards him, her eyes never leaving his.

"WHY NOT?"

"Because we're _siblings_, Natalia. We're already linked so closely that to become anything more would give us no room to be our own people, which is what we need!"

"You don't _know_ what I need! You've _never _known that, even after all the time we've been together! You talk about being our own people? Well, I don't want to be my own person in a world that doesn't have you in it. Do you know why?"

"Yes!" He was angry now, ire having spread across his face as she ranted.

"You're still living in the past, _little sister_. You think that it's better for you to stay at home where it's safe because you're too afraid to _grow up_!"

"You stupid idiot! I could go back tomorrow, kill all of those pretentious fools, and take command in a _nanosecond_. But I don't because I choose to be with you! Because I LOVE you, Ivan! If you really love me too, then it's _you_ who doesn't want to grow up! You think that if everyone can't be one with Russia, then Russia has to be completely alone!"

By now she was screaming more fearsomely than he'd ever heard her speak before. He felt like he was going into shock.

She stopped talking and silence fell with a thud. Seemingly exhausted from her cathartic eruption, she resumed in a low and entreating whisper.

"Life isn't lived in terms of all or nothing, big brother. Just because you can't have everything you want doesn't mean you have to deprive yourself of the things that are most important to you. One person who truly loves you isn't too much to ask of this world."

Ivan's face had been a battlefield of emotions during this last speech. When she'd finished, he'd found it impossible to look at her; his eyes took in the floor and he sank to his knees, almost to her height. Her eyes, by the same token, were misty. His bit his lower lip to hold his face into some semblance of composure.

Suddenly, he pulled her into a hug and buried his face in her neck. He said nothing for a long moment until words started to flow breathily outwards.

"I'm sorry…I am so sorry. I knew how you felt, but I was terrified that you would be consumed by the chaos that has swirled around me for so long. I wanted better for you! I didn't want you to be hurt any further by all of my mistakes…from all of my…_madness_."

She leaned back to look at his face, now stained with tears, and tilted it up to her. "I should hope to burn forever with the fire of your madness, just as I mean to see you burn with mine. Think of the worlds our sun will illumine for us. For what else could love be… for people like us?"

Their lips met…and an aura of morning seemed to shine well into the night.

**THE END**


End file.
